Your Words Are Gelignite
by A Touch of Insanity
Summary: "I'll tell you what, babe - I'll let you go. Both of you even. If you shoot your pet."/ Set precisely after TGG. Moriarty gives an ultimatum. Sherlock makes a confession and does what he must. John loses himself somewhere between truth and lie. Slash.
1. My Heart Keeps Beating Like A Hammer

_"I tremble; they're gonna eat me alive._  
_If I stumble, they're gonna eat me alive._  
_Can you hear my heart beating like a hammer?_  
_Beating like a hammer..._

_Help, I'm alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer_.  
_Hard to be soft, tough to be tender_.  
_Come take my pulse, the pace is on a runaway train."_

"Help, I'm Alive" by Metric_  
_

* * *

"You're not going to get out of here like _that_, Sherlock," Moriarty teases.

As John watches, Sherlock's eyes dart from the Semtex vest to Moriarty to the dot that must be on John's forehead, then back to the Semtex. A loop, like he's trying to make all of the calculations that'll tell him what to do, but there're too many variables. Around and around and around. A circle of indecision. It's a dead point and they're not going anywhere.

"Come on now, you aren't going to shoot it. John has ten feet to clear to get to the pool's edge, you know there's no way he'll make it before everything goes _boom_. I can see it in your eyes: you won't risk his life or limbs like that." John looks over at Sherlock, but he's staring straight at Moriarty now, giving him his full focus.

John blurts out, "It's fine. _Really_." Because it's not John who matters here. He's a soldier, not in the sense that he's been in a war, but in that he's willing to fight, to fall, for something greater. _Sherlock's a great man_, Lestrade's words echo in his mind, and it's completely true. He's got the sort of potential that makes him ache in awe.

"Oh yes, Sherlock." Moriarty's grinning now. "It's _all_ fine." John pales. _How long has he been following Sherlock?_ "I'll tell you what, babe - I'll let you go. Both of you even. _If_...you shoot your pet."

John immediately just says, "Do it, Sherlock."

It isn't even something he has to think about, taking a bullet (_a singularly exquisite pain_) for him.

"He's so loyal. I see why you let him tag along. He must do wonders for your ego-"

"You only want me to shoot him?" Sherlock asks, narrowing his eyes, and John can tell that he's thinking that a graze to the arm or even a bullet in the thigh would be acceptable, something to be recovered from.

Moriarty laughs, light and high-pitched. "You know it won't be easy. So!" He claps his hands, excited. "Rules: head or chest, your choice. You only have to tell him what you really think of him first. Then, head or chest. You have to decide if you'd rather not be able to look him in the eyes again or have to watch him realize fully just how extraneous he is, on the off chance that he might just survive. It's up to you, Sherlock. Do you want him to possibly live and know the truth or do you want to be a murderer?"

"And if I refuse? You won't kill me, Moriarty. You wouldn't break your favorite _toy_."

"Then," Moriarty begins, smiling in a way that promises pain, "I'll make you watch as I break _him_. I can make it last hours, days, even, and when he begs me to end it, when he doesn't even look _human_ anymore, he'll blame _you_. I'll make you listen when he does. He'll curse you the way only the almost-dead can - with _everything_. And he'll mean every word."

Sherlock's frown deepens. "May we discuss?" This earns a nearly-feminine laugh. John decides that he'd very much like to shut that mouth for good, as soon as possible.

"So that you can convince him to let you put a bullet in his brain? I'd love to hear it."

"I can handle it," John says softly as Sherlock turns. "I've walked for days without food or water, I've had to dig shrapnel out of my own shoulder with my fingers, I've watched men I thought of as brothers fall under fire. I can handle anything he dares to throw at me." Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, and John gets the strangest sensation that he can see through the man's skin, that beneath, he's just a collection of shards and edges that are grinding away at each other. But on the surface, there's an apology in the space between his lips.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I can't let you do that."

"It's fine, he'll get bored or something before I give in, and you'll have time to get us out of here."

"He won't be bored." His eyes are full of a dark knowledge. "He knows a million ways of destroying someone without killing them, believe me. I _know_. He'll never stop, he'll never run out of things to make you hurt. I've seen inside of his head, I've _been there_, not the way he has, but I know it. It is not a possibility that he'll break you into nothing, it's a guarantee."

"It won't come to that. You'll think of something long before them," he says, hoping it's true, believing it's true.

Sherlock glances quickly at Moriarty, then whispers, "What if I don't?" The fact that he's doubting himself is disturbing. It sets John's stomach into a twisted knot.

"Then shoot me on the right side of my chest, between my fourth and fifth ribs. That's below my armpit. If you can, angle the trajectory so that the exit wound is far away from my spine. Don't go too low, or you might-"

"John, I know my anatomy." He looks less annoyed than his tone implies. "Are these hollow-point bullets?" It takes him a minute to remember what ammo he purchased. For a flash second, he imagines what would happen if they are hollow-point, the damage he's seen too many times to be able to stop the shiver that runs up his spine. The last thing he wants is a million pieces of a bullet scattered in his rib cage.

John sighs nervously. "I don't think so." A sharp look, though he thinks that maybe Sherlock isn't really cross with him or any iteration thereof, more worried than anything else.

"You don't _think_ so?" he hisses, and John gives him a hollow look. It's all he's got. Sherlock softens just the smallest bit. "Fine." He turns back to Moriarty, who's looking a little impatient. "I'll shoot him. That's what you want, isn't it? You'd like me to kill him by my own hand. It's not because you want me to suffer, is it? You're jealous of him. You're fascinated with me, but this is the closest we'll come to being allies, to being friends. You wish you could have his place. There's no use in denying it."

Moriarty stares at Sherlock dead on and lilts, "Amateur psychology does not become you, dear. We'll have to work on that. Come on, now. Let's get on with it." Sherlock turns to face John, leveling the gun at him. It shouldn't feel this way, given the circumstances, but in the back of his throat is the bitter tang of betrayal, like blood, like iron. "You have to tell him, Sherlock."

"I have to tell him _what_, exactly?" His eyes aren't leaving John's now, they're trained on him with a sort of soft, sorry look to them.

"What you really think of him." Moriarty gives an exasperated sigh, then walks towards them with large, annoyed steps, stopping no more than a couple feet away. "It shouldn't be that hard; I can see it all just beneath the surface."

Sherlock's jaw is tight, angry. "Fine. John. I appreciate that you don't throw out my experiments-"

"No no no no _no_! That's not it!"

"What would you have me say, then? Why don't you fit me with one of your ear pieces and feed me the lines you'd like." He rolls his eyes, and John's not actually sure if he's genuinely upset or just baiting the madman. Neither bode well. "Tell me, how best should we act in this vicarious drama of yours? Would you like tears? Sobbing? Hysteria? _Tell me_!" He's not yelling, but his voice is so intense, his words have the same force. Moriarty grins wickedly. It's the grin of a sadist who knows that pain is approaching swiftly.

"You may, if you're so moved. But I'd rather like you to start with the fact that you'll hate everyone he might ever love, and we can progress from there." Sherlock narrows his eyes at this. "Tell him. I want you to tell him so and then I want you tell him _why_." It's complete madness. Any shred of sanity John had imagined in him has disappeared.

It's a grim moment before Sherlock speaks. "John. I...I hate everyone you'll ever love because this poof has told me to-" Moriarty smacks him on the back of the head hard with his gun; it looks surprisingly painful, and Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise.

"If you do that again, you won't have a choice in this. I'll annihilate every last bit of him, I'll let you hold the pieces in your hands when I end him. Then I will let you go. Know that it will be _you_ who chose that for him if you don't comply." There's the strangest expression on Sherlock's face, and it takes John a second to realize that it might be fear. "What do you think I should start with? Should I take a knife to him? Acid? Electricity? Fire? I do find the poetry in that to be fitting - I did tell you that I'd burn the heart out of you. Or should I take him apart other ways? Tell me, how should I defile him, Sherlock? Would you like to see the sorts of obscene shapes I can bend him in, the terrible things I could do to his empty shell of a body? I won't _enjoy_ it, of course, but it'll be enough to watch you writhe because you can't do a thing to stop it. Is that what you'd like?"

"I'll tell the truth," Sherlock says, like it's bullets he's pushing through his teeth. "That's the most I can do."

"It'll suffice, I'm sure. Now carry on. You're starting to try my patience." The way Sherlock looks at him then makes him burn to be somewhere else, somewhere they can face down armies and worlds together, not be forced to play Moriarty's games, turn against each other. Everything about him is an apology now, and John honestly fears what he's about to say. Because beneath the brilliance, Sherlock can be cruel. He knows exactly where to cut to wreak the most damage on a person.

"I forgive you," he whispers. Not really as a consolation, more to brace himself.

There's no way it'll be enough.

"I hate Sarah, John. And Harry. Your parents, even. I hate them more than you could ever imagine." He sighs, almost like the whine of a wounded animal, and scrapes at his temple with the barrel of the gun. "It's all your fault, you see. You make me hate people just a little more than before. I couldn't figure it out at first, but I know it started when you first called me 'amazing', like you meant it. You _waste_ things, John. Words, mostly. You just throw them from your mouth like they're nothing for you to say, like they don't cost a thing. The most ridiculous thing, though, is that _you don't even realize it_." Sherlock has turned into something wild. He's too big for his skin, he's trying to push through himself and expand. He's gone supernova and it's all John can do to watch.

"I absolutely loathe the things you do without thinking. I don't think you understand that I was never meant to be balanced. Did you ever think that there might be a reason for the way I do things? Of course you didn't. I have an incredible brain, you've said as much, but I was never meant to have a heart. But you've gone and ruined that now, haven't you?" It's now that John starts to wonder where this is going. Sure, he believes in emotional growth, but he never meant to turn him into this _thing_, this self-contained explosion. "You've twisted everything! I have so much reason to hate you-"(_John winces here as a vacuum forms in his chest_)"-a thousand things, reasons that I should sever all ties, and yet I haven't. You're a prize fool, John Watson, the most incredible imbecile I've ever met-"(_This shouldn't hurt, but it does. Too much._)"-You're just so completely ignorant, so amazingly stupid! It's revolting. I'm disgusted by it. By _you_." John's becoming a photonegative, the inverse of him. Where Sherlock is an exploding celestial body, brilliant while burning, he's the rapidly-collapsing star, falling into himself. A black hole.

"Sometimes I want to throw up with how much I don't hate you." Sherlock's still wild, but somehow John stops and remembers how to breathe when he hears that. "It makes me ill just to think about it, let alone speak about it. The worst thing about all of this is how totally unprepared I was. It's so easy not to care about anyone, I don't think you realize just how easy, but then you came in and decided that I wasn't _human_ enough for you-"(_That was never it, never. Sherlock's always been too human, too much inside of one man._)"-It's supposed to be easy not to feel, but you've gone and made it _impossible_ not to." In an instant, Sherlock has moved the gun from his own head and pressed the barrel against John's, twisting his jumper in his fist.

He growls, "For a second there, you probably thought that I'm not a complete _monster_. You thought I developed some long-lost sense of empathy, didn't you? You're wrong." His face is twisted into a snarl, inches away, so close that John can taste the rage and despair on his breath. "I couldn't care less about people, the whole population. But _you._" Sherlock twists the gun, grinding it into his scalp, and John whimpers in the back of his throat, quietly. "I could kill everyone, absolutely everyone and it wouldn't mean a thing to me, because they're nothing, nothing at all. I just need _you_." His face falls and it looks like he's about to either cry or yell. He shoves John away roughly, enough that he stumbles a little. The desperate curve of Sherlock's mouth, the raw _something_ in his eyes, the way he looks defeated now, crumpled and small, it all breaks him a bit.

"Do you see what you've done?" he whispers. His voice is like a bare wind whistling through the gnarled limbs of a dead tree - the sound of a broken man. John can't bear to see anyone like this, least of all Sherlock (_a mountain for all he could be moved, a statue of cold marble, an unshakable truth_), just Sherlock with his shaking hands and wild eyes; he makes a flash decision and advances slowly. When he crosses the handful of feet, he grabs Sherlock by the shoulders to steady him. "Look at what you've made me, John. I'm not a man, I'm something less. A monster. A beast."

"You look alright to me," John breathes, trying to calm him.

A bitter laugh. "John. Don't think for a moment that I won't destroy you like him. I will consume you, I will warp you into something terrible, I will take everything you have to give and then I'll take more. Because I need you. I need to _have_ you. I need to be inside your skin. I need to breathe with your lungs. You'll be damaged because I need you to be. I'll bruise you, scar you, bleed you because that's what you've done to me. You've brought out the worst in me with the best, and I won't stop until you know that the way I do." The gun's at the corner of his jaw now, the hand holding it just resting on his shoulder like Sherlock's forgotten about it. The other hand's gripping his upper arm like he's trying to pierce it, then moves, grabbing his neck and jumper with his nails and insistency, nothing soft about it.

"I'll ruin you, John Watson, I'll _ruin_ you," he says, almost like an apology, and then Sherlock's mouth is crushing his own. His lips are too urgent to be soft, too wanting, like broken glass. John can't quite comprehend it all, like there's a missed connection between his mouth and brain; he has no control over his own body. No, he's caught in the tide of Sherlock's need and it might be enough to drown him. The mouth on his is hot and there're teeth, biting his lip like they own it, enough to hurt, enough to make him gasp, but that's all Sherlock needs to lick his tongue inside.

There's no conscious decision, no conscious thought that tells John to respond, it's just instinct; there's no other option.

John thinks they might have caught on fire somewhere between their mouths and souls. In the only still-thinking part of his mind, it's clear that Sherlock is raw energy now, something to bend to and something to drain the life out of. His hands are just holding on, trying not to fall in or be blown away, because it's utterly terrifying what he can feel in Sherlock's breath and mouth and _need_. Tongues and lips try to set something ablaze, or maybe they've already reached the point of combustion and it just hasn't caught up yet, but that doesn't explain why he's drowning, drowning-

"_Hello_-o! Much as I enjoy a good tragic farewell, this little snog-fest is getting out of hand." The voice is enough of a shock to make John jolt backwards. Moriarty looks like maybe he might just shoot them and be done with it. He glances at Sherlock and something catches in his throat. He's still wild, almost feral, and his eyes have gone dark, almost black, his mouth a red smear, his full lips swollen and John thinks, going by the sting in his lower lip, that the tiny spot of blood on Sherlock's mouth is his own.

Sherlock doesn't look at Moriarty, but says to him, "You asked for the truth, you asked for this. You meant for John to be afraid, though, or disgusted, didn't you?" Moriarty seems to have nothing to say, and John knows the feeling. "Don't worry, he is. Or he will be when it catches up to him." For some reason, John wants to just kiss him again, be lost in him again, whether they're killed for it or not.

"I'll give you a moment, then, shall I?" Moriarty says. It's clear by his expression that he has some new idea, some horrid new plan, since he's grinning like a kid at Christmas as he backs away a couple steps, then a couple more.

As he pulls John toward him, Sherlock whispers, "Don't forget to breathe." John reaches for him open-mouthed and hungry. It's more of a soul-sucking than a kiss, deep with a slight tang of iron. This time, though, he's aware of the barrel of the gun tracing his hairline, his jaw, teasing under his chin, then sliding down to press against his chest. He's not sure if it's in spite of the fear or because of it that all of the blood rushes to his head and he's dizzy in a way that shouldn't feel right, not considering the circumstances. Sherlock's breath is hot in his mouth, tasting like a promise. Oddly desperate, John scrabbles at his hair, fingers tangling in curls.

They're twisting, winding around each other like smoke. He lets Sherlock steer them because he's too lost to be able to think about it. Something like adrenaline, something like fear is pooling hot in his chest. Maybe it's the end of everything approaching, but he couldn't care less, even if he could truly think about it. Instead, there's only the demanding swarm of lips and teeth and tongue that might devour him.

Pulling away just barely, Sherlock says, "John, _breathe_. Breathe now." John wants to protest because really, air is such a silly thing, but he takes a gulp of oxygen, finding Sherlock's lips again.

There's a painfully loud noise near his ear and then swirling vertigo until he hits something soft. When he opens his eyes, uncomfortable because his mouth feels empty, a hand goes to cover his sore ear and he realizes that he's underwater. Looking up, he sees a glorious war of starlight above, stretching and swirling and writhing in painfully bright oranges and yellows. It's oddly beautiful.

John hadn't really held his breath, so his lungs are starting to burn fiercely when the fiery beast above recoils, retracts. Then Sherlock's hands are pushing him upwards, pulling him to the surface. The gasping breaths he takes when his head breaks through the ceiling of water sound foreign to his good ear. As he recovers, he watches Sherlock, who's breathing hard and backing away, away to the edge of the pool, just resting against the side. John dares to pulls his eyes away and look over the edge, at where the bomb went off, at where Moriarty was standing. There's nothing, just blackened tile.

The soldier, the doctor, the practical-thinker kicks in, asking, "Did you see him when you fired?"

"I couldn't risk looking," Sherlock says almost like a confession. _He fired blind?_

"You mean..." The soggy detective doesn't meet his eyes. "If you had _missed_...? If you had missed, we would have been killed!"

Sherlock looks at him hard. "Yes, well, I didn't miss." John sputters for a moment. "Come on, let's get out of the pool. Lestrade will be here in a few moments."

"You _knew_ he was coming? Why didn't you-"

"_John_. He's coming because a pool just exploded. He's coming because before I left the flat I told him to send out his little Yardies to look for a bomb on this side of town. I couldn't risk spooking Moriarty with the presence of law enforcement, but if we're lucky, Lestrade will have been intelligent enough to at least check my blog. He'd know I'm at a pool, and someone will have seen the explosion, judging by the windows." John looks up towards the ceiling and sees the windows have all blown out. "We have only to wait a few moments." Sherlock lifts himself up on the edge of the pool, pulling himself out of the water. It's a moment before John does the same.

Sitting, wet, on the scorched tile, a stray dark thought comes to him: _Sherlock is quite the talented actor_. He's seen it before, that the man can cry, can muster false emotions to put on a good performance and get what he wants. _What if everything before the explosion was just an act?_

"You are correct. I should say I was impressed by how well you played along. It's good to know that I can depend on you in a time of peril." John doesn't say anything, just tries to breathe and wrap his head around the fact that the most real handful of minutes in his life were entirely a lie. It's a staggering sort of truth, that the most intense thing he's ever witnessed, ever experienced had been nothing more than a plot to escape. It's obvious, even. He should have known that Sherlock could never feel a thing like that, not such a wretched, empty marvel of a man.

There's a _bang!_ as the doors are flung open and collide with the wall, and John snaps his head towards the noise. Lestrade slows from a run to a halt, but the paramedics behind him stride toward them in a business-like manner.

"What on earth happened here, Sherlock? Why is John here? Where is he? The man who did this? You better start explaining."

"There was an unforeseen complication. I intended to hand over a blank flashdrive and stall Moriarty until you arrived, but it seems John was foolish enough to allow himself to be kidnapped-"

"There were three of them, I'd hardly say I _allowed_ anything." Sherlock looks at him for a second like he's trying to see more truth beneath his words.

Seeming to shake it off, Sherlock continues, "Anyway, John and I managed to stall him long enough to set off the bomb."

"Where, exactly, does the bomb figure into everything?" The look on Lestrade's face shows he knows Sherlock is about to insult and scold him.

"Really, Lestrade, you must pay attention. Obviously, John was selected to be Moriarty's fifth mouthpiece." He considers something for a second. "A serious mistake on his part."

"So, is he dead, then?"

Sherlock tilts his head, saying, "It would appear so. In which case, I highly doubt it."

No one says anything for almost a full minute.

One of the paramedics turns John's head from side to side, then says, "The damage to your ear should heal on its own in a few days, but otherwise you should be fine. We'll get you some blankets; it's chilly out there." John smirks a little, thinking of the last time they gave Sherlock a blanket.

"I guess," Lestrade says, looking at them both with a hint of concern, "you may leave. Though I'll expect you tomorrow before noon at the Yard. Otherwise, I will find you. You know I will." This seems mostly directed at Sherlock, but then he turns to John and says, "Make sure he turns up, alright?" Lestrade then turns to a police officer standing in the doorway. "Any word from the bomb squad yet?"

The paramedic comes back with a grotesquely orange blanket for each of them. John offers a thanks and pulls it around his shoulders. The pool room is warmer than outside because the pool is heated, but he's still getting cold as he starts to dry a little.

John turns to Sherlock. "Shall we get ourselves a cab, then?" Sherlock nods, but doesn't say anything, just gets up and starts walking away. It takes a minute to catch up, and when John does, they're outside. It's _freezing_ between the chill of the night, his dripping clothes, and the sinking feeling that he's just found and lost something incredible in the span of ten minutes. Hissing against the cold, he pulls the blanket tighter. Sherlock is walking quickly to get to a main street to find a cab, so he quickens his pace to catch up; it does something to warm his blood and occupy his mind. He doesn't want to think about _it_, can't think about it. The second he truly examines everything, he knows it'll end badly.

* * *

As he slides into the cab, he hopes the cabbie doesn't see that they're completely wet; he's not sure how much cash he has on him in the first place, though it's a good thing he didn't think to bring his phone with him. Weary, John leans against the window, watching all of the shops and buildings slide by, wondering at how normal they all seem even though some sort of dimensional shift has occurred.

"I suppose it's a natural progression," Sherlock says softly, startling John out of his thoughts.

"What?"

A blank look. "I didn't say anything."

"You just said 'I suppose it's a natural progression'. _What's_ a natural progression?" He does his best to do the soldier stare-down, a little hard since he's shivering, but after a moment or two, it seems to have an effect.

"I hadn't meant to say anything out loud." John keeps staring, waiting for the inevitable continuation. "I was considering the past hour and came to a conclusion: It's a natural progression from killing for me to dying for me." This, _this_ is a shock. That it's so true it seems to slaps him in the face. In the heat of the moment, John would be willing to do just what he said, he _was_ willing to do just that, but hearing it like that, giving the action, the feeling words puts it into harsh perspective. _He would die for Sherlock Holmes_.

"Would it be alright if we never speak of tonight again?" he asks, knowing that it's the last hope he has for self-preservation.

Stiffly, Sherlock replies, "Of course. It's no wonder that your masculinity and self-respect have taken a blow at feeling helpless. It was the first time you've ever been truly victimized, was it not?" Completely missing the point.

John simply glares at him in response for a moment, then turns back to the window, ignoring him for the rest of the ride.

* * *

After paying the cabbie (made possible by the tenner he keeps in the heel of his shoe for emergencies because apparently, Sherlock's card isn't acceptable), John follows Sherlock up to the flat, shaking with the cold. Were he alone, he would peel off his clothing at the door, put on a kettle, and get into his warmest pajamas. But he isn't, so he hangs his wet coat up next to Sherlock's, then heads to the loo to grab a towel. _His_ towel is gone, though that's probably because it was more in-reach (having been on the rack) than Sherlock's, whose is crumpled in ball wedged between the sink and wall. It's damp from his shower that morning, but John takes it anyway because the only alternatives are talking to Sherlock or being wet. Neither are very appealing.

In his room, he strips down and scrapes the excess water from his skin. He's shivering as he pulls on his pajama bottoms, the thick fleece ones for winter, and not one, but two jumpers; it might be better in his room, but downstairs, with the boarded-up, blown-out windows, it's quite cold. The clothes still stick to his damp limbs and it's uncomfortable, but warmer. Goosebumps flicker across his skin in waves and they're not going away, so after taking a moment to be a responsible adult by hanging up his wet clothing, he heads to the kitchen to make himself a cuppa.

After the water's done, he takes his tea to his room and sits on his bed, setting the cup on his bedside table. A quick thought, then he gets up and locks the door before sitting on his bedcovers again. He looks at the tea, looks at the wall across from him, then back at the tea. Picks it up. It's too hot, but he drinks it anyway because the burn in the roof of his mouth and his throat and his stomach mean that he'll be warm soon.

And then he just sits.

And sits.

That's when his thoughts, his fears, crash upon him, though he thinks he's almost ready for them. He's wrong, he's so wrong about that because the _thinking_ is far worse than anything. Letting a thousand doubts that are more like facts, more like worries that stink of truth find him is not something he's actually ready for, but he's too far in to stop.

Sherlock has changed everything, that much is certain. He's corrupted it all, the balance they've wobbled into existence. There's nothing for it. The disturbing thing is how little time it took. In less than fifteen minutes, Sherlock had as much as said he loved him and then said it was a lie. It's _far_ too much to process in that little time. It had felt like being truly _alive_, facing down Moriarty. The mortal fear, the adrenaline, the winning, the losing, all of it just too many ups and downs and then he's shown something too raw to be disbelieved...too many things converging at one time to take his world, flip in, twist it, mold it, then hand it back with no time to adjust. It's no surprise the outcome is something unexpected and crippling.

Before being kidnapped, before the mess, John would have said that he sees Sherlock as some sort of madman he can't bring himself to get rid of. Someone incredibly crazy. Someone he'd never dream of really leaving, they're just twisted together like that, molded together by dark acts and secrets and dangerlust. There had not been a time prior when he would have said that he loved Sherlock. It's simply not a thought that occurs to him. They had started out in the realm of the platonic and John never really had a strong desire to be with men and Sherlock can be antisocial with alarming frequency. Friends would be the most extreme outcome; there had been no place for love in the mess.

There isn't, still. John can't tolerate the thought of _love_, not yet, but he knows that where there was nothing hours before, something alarmingly large exists. Something he never wanted. But now Sherlock had shown him something real and terrible, something like war and rage and fire, and that's the sort of territory he _thrives_ in. It isn't supposed to happen that Sherlock's entire soul (_or whatever one might call that dark, writhing sort of energy in him_) is a battlefield. A place for him to claw through the mud to destroy an army of foes. A place for him save someone and wish he could save more. A place of indescribable loss and horror, but also one of victory and glory and the triumph of good over all else. It's exactly the kind of place John was made for. But he isn't supposed to feel like he belongs among the dark folds and shadows of another person's psyche. Worse still, that person isn't supposed to be a self-professed sociopath, a man incapable of feeling, the most ignorant genius to walk the Earth. That person isn't supposed to be too brilliant to ignore, enough to burn his eyes out, not that he'd mind.

And for the love of God, John was never, not in a million years meant to kiss him.

The night had just been a giant collection of things that should never have been allowed to happened. And then somewhere in the midst of how wrong it all is and how much John just wants to sleep and wake up and convince himself it's all a dream, he thinks for just a second of just leaving the room, finding Sherlock, and snogging him senseless.

But then he remembers that he's not in a rom-com and that the other key point in this little adventure is that _Sherlock doesn't actually love him_. The problem is that it had been surprisingly easy to grasp the idea of there being something there, but now that he's accepted that weird sort of twisted reality, he can't shake it. He knows that it's wrong, he's aware that it's a false premise he's based his gospel off of, but for some reason, the far more plausible answer is the one he can't wrap his head around. Doesn't want to. Because Sherlock's selfish and cruel and unfeeling except when he _isn't_, and he had been everything wrong and painful and human about himself for a few moments and maybe that's why. He'd put a little too much of himself into the performance. Sure, he could have made some sort of sappy confession of love, but John wouldn't have believed it, and probably, Moriarty wouldn't have either.

John lays down on top of his cold blankets and sheets. A mind shouldn't be able to spin the way his is. He needs sleep and he needs it now. He needs to leave his mind for long enough to stay sane, even if that means coming back to this madness later. With determination, he shuts his eyes against it all.

In his dreams, he's no more than a paper boat on a boiling ocean.

* * *

"_All this potential has messed up my whole day,_  
_ A storm of times and overlapping things._  
_ This information has left me overwhelmed._  
_ I've no idea where I should go._

_ How can I stand and hold up this great wall?_  
_ And if it falls, then I might blow away._  
_ What's wrong? Can't he see how hard I've tried?_  
_ I'm numb inside._  
_ I'm done tonight._"

"Numb" by Barcelona


	2. We're Catching Bullets in Our Teeth

"_We're catching bullets in our teeth,_  
_ Its hard to do but they're so sweet,_  
_ And if they take a couple out,_  
_ We try to work things out._  
_ We're catching bullets with our_  
_ Heads and hearts and all the darkest parts of us._  
_ It's strange to find such lights_  
_ In such endless night._"

"Bullets" by Tunng

* * *

It's easy to wake up in the morning. John dresses and goes to the chilly kitchen for breakfast before he remembers. Staring at the kettle, he _remembers_, just like that.

"Keep calm and carry on," he says to himself softly, hopping a little from foot to foot because the floor is too cold for his bare feet.

When his toast is done and his tea is steeping, he sits at their shared desk. His laptop is out, since Sherlock's been using it more and more lately, no surprises there. It's practically _their _laptop anyway. For just a moment, he considers changing his password, then shrugs off the idea; Sherlock will guess it anyway. He always does.

Taking a bite of toast, John opens up the web browser to update his blog. First, though, he automatically checks his email, just a habit he acquired in the military when waiting for some sort of correspondence from Harry or his parents.

There's an email from an address that reads as "blocked", with the subject "Just a little gift, Doctor". Instinct tells him to wait before opening it, to find Sherlock because it feels like Moriarty, but curiosity gets the better of him. He doesn't want to see Sherlock just yet anyway. So he clicks. Opens it.

_I thought you might appreciate this. You can watch it over and over (as I know you will) and think of how much of a lie it is. We both know he doesn't love you. He's not even capable of it. If he was, though, I think we can assume that he would love someone far more his equal. Tell me, did you see the look in his eyes when he thought that you were me? That one of the few people who hasn't left him (and we know why that is, don't we?) had actually fooled him? Did you see it, that little look when he thought you were a criminal genius? That look is the closest he will ever come to actually loving you, and he thought you were __**me**__. _

There's a video embedded, then it continues.

_This is what he really meant. This is the truth of it all, though I don't need to tell you that._

Another embedded video.

John clicks on the play button on the first video. The quality is decent, though it seems like the zoom has been taken to its limit. And there, right on his screen in a little more than a profile view, is Sherlock. He's shaking, he looks mad, and in a second, he speaks.

"_I hate Sarah, John..._" John watches, unable to look away throughout the whole speech. Every word carves away a tiny piece of him until there's nothing left. He's empty. Totally numb. And then it ends on their lips, just about to meet, pauses on that single, horrible moment. John scrolls down a little to cover up the image. Curious and maybe a little masochistic, he clicks on the second video.

It's all audio, but it's infinitely more disturbing.

"It's all your fault, you see. You make me hate people just a little more than before. The most ridiculous thing, though, is that _you don't even realize it_. I absolutely loathe the things you do. I have so much reason to hate you. You're a prize fool, John Watson, the most incredible imbecile I've ever met. You're just so completely ignorant, so amazingly stupid! It's revolting. I'm disgusted by it. By _you_. Sometimes I want to throw up with how much I hate you. It makes me ill just to think about you, let alone speak to you. Don't think for a moment that I won't destroy you like him. I'll ruin you, John Watson, I'll _ruin_ you. There's no use in denying it."

_This_ makes the breath coming to his lungs shake, his hands clench, his chest collapse. It's true, it's all there in his words, in Sherlock's own voice, all of the things he meant to say. He can't ignore it, not when it's said like that, in that tone that makes it sound like everything and nothing's wrong. It sounds too much like _truth_ in Sherlock's voice.

It takes a moment to remember that he has to keep going. Sure, his flatmate, the flatmate who might have a heart but probably doesn't, absolutely loathes everything about him. Yes, sure, he somehow managed to make John love-_no, not love, something else_-him even so. But John's a bloody Englishman and he isn't going to _wallow_ in his misery. No, he'll keep a stiff upper lip and keep right on going. That's what he does, that's what a soldier does, that's what a doctor does, and that's exactly what he's going to do. No one will ever know what he's thinking, that he can already feel himself fragmenting underneath it all. _No one will know but him._

After swallowing any remaining emotion, John shuts down the computer, then stands, drinking his tea, and starts looking for Sherlock. Lestrade wants to see them today, but first, Sherlock should know that Moriarty's alive for sure and what he's sent. A video can be power, John knows, and Sherlock should be warned. Regardless of how much he doesn't want him to see the instrument designed for his destruction.

John knocks on the door to Sherlock's bedroom. There's no answer. He knocks harder, louder. Nothing. He tries the handle. Locked, so he puts his cup down on the table, then pitches his shoulder against it, finally getting the damn thing open.

And there he is.

Sherlock's laying on the bed, on his back with his hands folded beneath his head. "You couldn't text?" he asks.

John shakes his head, saying, "No, I will not text you if you're in the _same flat_ as me. Now get up. And if you put my towel back in the bathroom and hang it up, I might even make you tea. We have a day ahead of us, in case you haven't realized." Sherlock looks at John's towel, in a crumpled heap next to his wet (and _expensive_, if he knows anything about labels) clothes. John hopes he gets mildew in them or something, just to teach him to hang his wet things up. Like _John's_ towel.

"Fine, fine. I suppose you'll tell me what Moriarty's done after?" The way he knows what John isn't saying doesn't really shake him too much. He watches, sighing, as Sherlock swings his long legs over the side of the bed as he gets to his feet. He's in his pajamas still, but he still manages to look like he means business.

A shred of dignity is found. "Yes. Now go hang up my towel before it grows mould." He actually does put a kettle on for Sherlock, but that's really more out of habit than anything else. And no, he isn't going to think about _anything_, he very much isn't going to let his mind wander as he waits for the kettle to boil. No, he's just going to concentrate on making tea. Just _tea_.

Sherlock opens the fridge. "What has he done?"

"Laptop," John says. Then, "He really is an arrogant sod, isn't he?"

"Psychopaths often are." A chair scrapes the floor as Sherlock sits down at the desk. "What am I to look for?" He sounds tired, annoyed, but it's an act.

"My email. I know you know my password." John gets out the milk and sugar, preparing the tea the way Sherlock likes it, also known as sweet milk with a tea bag in it. A bit disgusting, but it fits, in a strange sort of way. Inexplicably tired, he brings it over to Sherlock, then sits in his chair to wait.

A couple of minutes later, Sherlock's finished both videos. It had been all John could do to ignore the words coming from the speakers, but he had managed to not react. Then Sherlock nods thoughtfully for a second and gets up to sit in his usual chair.

"This puts things in a different light. I hadn't thought he'd record it. Obviously, he's talented at manipulating audio samples. We can assume that this isn't the only altered version he's made." Sherlock steeples his fingers, thinking, then looks up at John. His eyes have that spark that means there's something to be solved. "Shall we pay a visit to the Yard?"

John nods. "Get dressed first. As much as they'd all like to see you in your jimjams, it's not very professional." Sherlock quirks a smile, then goes to his room.

John wonders just when, if ever, he'll feel human again.

* * *

On the cab ride over, John asks the question that's his immediate concern: "How much are we telling them about what happened last night?"

"I would prefer it if we didn't say anything about what Moriarty made me say or just how we gained the upper hand. As you said, people will talk, and in this case, I'd rather they didn't." He's deliberately looking out the window, so John can't find the answer in his face; he's confused.

"_In this case_?"

"Well, because all of it was fabricated, they'd just be mislead. They might think there's more to us than there is, and there's no benefit in giving them that idea. Not at this time." It becomes clear then: he's just something there to be convenient. His purpose depends on what Sherlock needs at the moment. He knows it to be true, but it still stings. So he'll misdirect, try to find something else to be upset by, though, admittedly, he hits a little too close to the truth. It's one of those things they've mutually agreed not to speak too much about, but it tumbles from his lips in lieu of the fight he'd like to pick.

"So, it's fine for people to think we're sleeping together as long as they don't think there's anything more to it than that?"

Sherlock looks at him sternly. "There's a difference between letting people jump to their own conclusions and providing them with incorrect ones. Not until it helps solve a case will I confirm their rumors." He has no idea what possible case that might be, but it'll damn him, whatever it is.

"I think you have intimacy issues." It's completely honest of course, but also a bit too obvious because Sherlock wears his issues with intimacy on his sleeves, always has.

"And you have _trust_ issues. At least mine won't affect anyone but myself." There's a hint of coldness about the last bit, but John might be imagining it.

"Quoting my therapist. _Very_ mature."

Of course, Sherlock sulks for the rest of the ride, but then, John's stewing in his anger and his desperation, so he really has no right to judge.

* * *

Lestrade pulls them into his cubicle as soon as he lays his eyes on them, almost as if he's trying to keep others from seeing them. It makes John suspicious, and he's right to be so.

"What can you tell me about this?" Lestrade hisses, clicking something on his computer.

"_John._ _It's all your fault, you see. You make me hate people just a little more than before. I was never meant to have a heart. You probably thought that I'm not a complete __**monster**__. You thought I developed some long-lost sense of empathy, didn't you? You're wrong. I could kill everyone, absolutely everyone and it wouldn't mean a thing to me, because they're nothing, nothing at all_." He stops the recording.

"Care to tell me what this is about? This morning, the entire homicide department got an email with this clip. Donovan thinks this is reason enough to arrest you, and more than half of the boys agree. The others aren't surprised. So tell me why I shouldn't put you in cuffs right now."

"I didn't say it," Sherlock says lightly.

Lestrade glares. "Oh really? Because we all agree that it sounds like your voice. We had an analyst compare it to a recording we have of you, and she said it's _certainly_ a match. This is _you_. _You_ said this, now you've got five seconds to prove to me that you're not a complete psychopath."

"_Sociopath_, Lestrade. Really, I've told you-"

"I don't give a damn what the specifics are! I care about the fact that on this recording, you sound like someone who's just a breath away from committing cold-blooded murder." Sherlock stares for a moment. John's thinking of a way to work him out of it, but there aren't many options. He takes the simplest, a partial explanation

"Look," he begins, earning a warning look from Sherlock, "this isn't what it sounds like. The sample's been edited. By Moriarty, or someone who works for him. You know as well as I do that Sherlock's not a killer. Otherwise, we wouldn't be talking at your desk; we'd be in an interrogation room."

Lestrade looks around for a second, then back at them, a tired, worried expression clouding his face. "I believe you, John, but that's not enough. I need _proof_."

"We don't have any," Sherlock says quickly. "Do you really need me to do your job for you?" Ordinarily, this would be a rhetorical question followed by an _of course you do_, but this time, Sherlock merely frowns and leans back in his chair, like he's waiting for Lestrade to do something. It's not right, but then, John knows what he isn't saying and why.

The Detective Inspector sighs. "Sherlock. I can't do anything about this if you don't help me. Give me _something_."

"I have nothing to offer on the subject." John watches as Lestrade glares at him, like he's trying to telepathically convince him to tell what he knows. Sherlock, of course, is immune to such things.

"Go home and don't let _anyone_ see you leave. There's nothing for me to do with you, not until I've got the order to bring you in. _Go_, Sherlock." He and John get up to leave, keeping their heads low. "Not _you_, John. You're staying." John looks at the detective, sees he means business, then looks at his flatmate, sees he means murder. Metaphorical murder, but the message is clear: _silence_. As Sherlock slinks away, he sits and wonders the best way to not say anything.

"Why me?" he asks finally.

"Because you'll do what's best for him, even if he won't. You'll do what he _needs_ to have done, not necessarily what he _wants_ to be done."

John involuntarily clenches his jaw. "I won't tell you anything that could be damaging. To him or me." It's more of a question than an assertion, he notes with embarrassment. In his pocket, his phone buzzes. A text.

_Don't. SH. _

Quite to-the-point. The strange thing is, John isn't actually sure what's really more loyal: keeping his secret or keeping him out of trouble. He might be in the early stages of agreeing with Lestrade, and that's a bit disconcerting.

"John. I know you know what's going on. Just tell me. This isn't the kind of thing I can just push away. I need you to tell me why it sounds like Sherlock is going to kill someone." John's phone buzzes again.

_There's no reason to tell him. Ignore him. Remember who buys your milk. SH._

John rolls his eyes, sending back quickly: _I buy the milk. You're too lazy to go to the Tesco._

"I know he's telling you not to tell me," Lestrade says quickly, "but don't let him get in the way of saving his arse. _Let me help him_."

"I can't just tell you everything, not when he specifically told me not to." John knows he needs to give more information, but he pauses first before he reluctantly adds, "I will say this: Moriarty is a delusional psychopath. He's insane, and he'll do everything he can to destroy Sherlock while still keeping him alive. He's more than willing to do whatever it takes. He's creative and just enough of a madman to do some truly horrible things. What you need to know, though, is that he's manipulative, and that's all this is. _Manipulation_. He wants everyone Sherlock knows to push him away."

Lestrade looks at him for a moment, assessing. "What happened at the pool last night?" It's not the tone of a detective inspector; it's the tone of a parent. Soft, worried. Genuinely concerned. It's enough to make John want to tell him anything, enough to convince him that it's safe, that it's okay.

"Fine. But first let me say, there's nothing more to any of it than Sherlock's acting talents. I don't know how much you've seen of it, but he's quite convincing when he needs to be."

"Oh, _I know_. It's eerie." Lestrade's look tells him that he's maybe not had the best experience where all of that's concerned.

"Yes. Well. He made use of his abilities last night." John offers an explanatory look. "We weren't in a good place, you see. Just when we thought we were in the clear, Moriarty pops back up again. He had these snipers, understand, and there's not much you can do with a red dot on your forehead. So there we were, standing opposite him with a vest of gelignite between us and the madman. Sherlock had a gun on him, mine, actually, but there was no way out of it. We were all going to go up in flames. But then Moriarty gives him an ultimatum: shoot me and he'll let Sherlock go." Lestrade winces here. "He had this, this mad _thing_. He told Sherlock that he'd let him take me with him, dead or alive after shooting me, if Sherlock would 'tell me how he really feels' first. I suppose that's when it got all bollocksed up."

"So, Moriarty thought that you and Sherlock...?" He raises his eyebrows slightly to convey his meaning. John's glad he doesn't put it in words.

"Apparently. And that's how all of this shite with the recording happened."

"I don't understand," Lestrade says, narrowing his eyes. "How did you go from guns and gelignite to Sherlock saying he wants to kill everyone?"

"That's not what he said." It's not enough, so he offers, "In context, it made more sense."

"_What_ context?"

John bites his lip, then says, "Well, Sherlock played to Moriarty's delusion." It's a second before Lestrade gets what he means, and then he looks more confused than before. John understands _that_ feeling completely.

Eyes narrowed, Lestrade says, "I'm still not sure how Sherlock confessing his undying love for you could sound like him wanting to kill people."

It's not like he intended to do it in the first place, but John realizes that the only way to avoid the embarrassing predicament of explaining it all for himself is to show Lestrade the video. One of the last things he wants to do. It's clear though that that's the only to get out of really reliving it all.

"Can I access my email from your computer? It'll explain everything." The detective nods, hands over his keyboard, turns the screen towards him. In seconds, John's opening the email. "This is from Moriarty," he clarifies, afraid that trying to downplay the bit at the beginning will only convince Lestrade that it's true, so he doesn't mention it. He turns the screen back and presses the play button, immediately thinking of all sorts of unrelated things to distract himself. Like global warming. And WikiLeaks. And bad American telly.

When it ends, Lestrade leans back in his swivel chair and looks at John for a long, long while.

After too many anxious minutes, the detective says, "That clears a whole lot up." John locks his jaw. "I take it that it was after all of this that Sherlock threw in that it's all an act?"

He nods.

"Can I be honest with you?"

Another nod.

"I know that Sherlock's pretty distant. He's got some issues. I don't know what they are, but I've known him for more five years and not once have I seen him with someone as long as he's been with you. He's kept you around, and I know that's for a reason. Somewhere in there, even if it's three sizes too small, Sherlock has a heart, and that heart cares about you. I don't know entirely in what way, I don't think anyone does, even him, but I think he's terrified you'll leave and he'll be on his own again. He's gotten used to having you around, likes it even, from what I've seen." Lestrade sighs, like he's uncomfortable with what he's going to say next.

John doesn't want to find out what it is, so he starts speaking. "I don't know-"

"_John_. Have you watched this?" Lestrade shakes his head, negating his question. "Of course you have, you were there. The point is, if this is Sherlock acting, he better quit consulting and get himself on the West End. I know this is personal and awkward, but I think you need to talk to him. You're obviously..._distraught_, and I _know_ he is, so why don't you two talk it out? Have a row or go to a pub and get pissed or something? I'm not an agony uncle; I don't know how to help you with this. You need to deal with it on your own."

John blinks long to clear his head, then forces a small smile. "Well, thank you for your advice. Is there anything else you need me for?" John stands, feeling a little guilty at how harsh he sounds. He gives a small apologetic look.

"No. I suppose not," Lestrade says evenly, chewing over it.

"Good. And I trust you won't share that video with anyone else?"

"No. I don't think it's really pertinent to our investigation, do you?"

John gives him a respectful nod and leaves, wondering at the damage he may have caused trying to do something right.

* * *

He can't go home, not right away, but there's nowhere else, really. Not Sarah, not until he's figured out what the bloody hell he's going to say to her. Not Harry, he's not ready to deal with all of that yet. And who else is there, really? Bill? More of an acquaintance, really. Clara? Too awkward. No, there's no one to seek out, no place to go.

John wanders the streets for a long time. Just walks around aimlessly in the chilly air, waiting for something to find him. When that becomes too depressing, he finds a tube station and hops on the Circle Line, just letting it take him around in loop after loop. Somehow, it keeps his mind busy enough for him not to think he's falling apart, but only for a little while. There's only so much he can do to fight off his own thoughts.

Then he watches passengers. At first, he's startled by a surprisingly troubled-looking man, but then he realizes he's staring at a window, catching his own reflection. It's better, though, to watch other people rather than think about his own problems or, even worse, go home and face them. Well, face _him_.

Some time into the afternoon, he gets off at the Baker Street station and heads back to the flat. He doesn't want to, but he also doesn't want to be too obvious about the fact that he's avoiding Sherlock. Well, not so much avoiding him as avoiding _thinking about_ him. Either way, he knows that he'll be found out, since Sherlock's just shy of omnipotent. It really makes things difficult in situations like this.

* * *

When John opens the door, he doesn't see Sherlock at first. There's an odd mixture of relief and worry that swirls up in him before it's quelled by a deep baritone coming from the direction of the sofa.

"I _know_ Lestrade didn't keep you that long."

John moves further into the room and sees Sherlock curled up on the couch, under his coat for warmth.

"Not Sarah's, no, you're far too much of a creature of guilt to speak to her just yet. Still not on good enough terms with Harry to pop over for a chat. And despite your deplorable friendliness with her, I know you're not actually any sort of mates with Sally Donovan, but you wouldn't insult me by spending time with Anderson. _Where_, then, have you been?"

John glares. "You know perfectly well where I've been, and even if you didn't, you're sounding like a wife. The bad sort, who reads all of your text messages and sniffs your laundry for perfume."

"I was more looking for an explanation of your unnatural length of time spent on the Underground rather than comparisons to your sister's failed marriage." An obvious jab, of course. He should have expected it.

"Have you called anyone about the windows yet?"

Sherlock's little frown of displeasure shows his distaste for the abrupt subject change. "No. Who would I call about the windows? Besides, that has nothing to do with your little sulk."

"You could try calling Mrs. Hudson. Our _landlady_. I mean, _really_, it's freezing in here."

"Why don't you do it? You're the one who likes all of that domestic business."

"I don't like it, you just refuse to do it."

The stare each other down for a moment, then Sherlock rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Anyway, are you going to offer an explanation for your theatrics?"

"My _theatrics_? _My_ theatrics?" John imagines he's quite red in the face now, but he doesn't care a whit; he's contemplating grievous bodily harm. "I don't think you want to get me started on _theatrics_."

Then, clearly a warning, Sherlock grinds out, "_I thought we weren't going to speak about it_."

John pauses for a moment, grave realization stilling his tongue.

This is it. The rubicon. The point at which two possible futures exist: the one in which he goes back to talking about the windows and the one in which he damns himself completely. This is where he should stop. This is where he should take a step back and never wander into this sort of dangerous territory again. That's what's safest, most stable.

Thing is, John's never been so good at self-preservation.

Bracing himself, he says, "Obviously, that's a terrible idea. We're probably both suffering from sort of post-traumatic stress anyway, and not talking about it is completely ridiculous." Sherlock's eyes are wide, threatened. "_I don't care_ if you have issues dealing with your emotions, this isn't something I'm just going to push off and ignore. We have to confront it; Moriarty's out there and he's plotting and even I can see that his goal right now is to drive us apart. Why should we give him what he wants?"

"His goal isn't to drive us apart; it's to make me suffer." It's quiet, practically under his breath. He's uncomfortable.

John crosses his arms. "He seems to think those are the same thing, and I'm not about to let either happen." Sherlock seems to relax incrementally. "That said, I think we need to get some things in order, figure out how we're going to proceed. Just a few things to look at. _Facts_, if that makes it easier for you."

"With the premise of analyzing data, the proper distance-"

"With all due respect, Sherlock, _fuck your proper distance_." The profanity, of course, manages to stun him for a second. "_That's_ not how it's going to work. This isn't about objectivity; this is about catharsis. First, I'll give you a few facts, and then we'll go from there."

Sherlock doesn't move.

"Fact one: Moriarty kidnapped me to get to you. Fact two: as you know, I would die if that would mean he would as well. Fact three:-" his voice falters just barely "-I would die if that would mean you would live. Fact four: you would rather kill me yourself than watch me die slowly." Sherlock makes a choked noise as if he's about to speak, but John doesn't let him. "Fact five: you're an unnaturally talented actor. Fact six: you _snogged_ me-"

Sherlock, making a face, bursts in with, "I would hardly call it _that_! I was simply trying to put on a convincing performance, which necessitated that I kiss-"

"A snog by any other name is still frenching, Sherlock. There was tongue and there was bodily contact and it lasted longer than is proper, so let's not be naive. _Now_. Fact seven: _I_ snogged you _back_. Fact eight-"

"What point are you trying to make?" Sherlock looks obstinate and just a touch despairing. It's enough to make John stop, as much as he's loathe to.

John shrugs noncommittally. "What point do you think I'm trying to make? You are, after all, _the detective_."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, like he's truly at a loss for words, but it's clear he's not about to end this line of conversation.

"I'll admit it. I'm human. Not only that, I'm a human with some measure of emotional intelligence, but I'm not a _casual_ sort of man, Sherlock. There are some things I can't be indifferent about. _Snogging_ _men_ is one of those things. So let me say that I can't just _brush off_ last night, even if I might want to. Two days ago, I would have laughed at the idea of it all, but now...now, I just..." John looks down at his hands. Wills them to pull the words back into his mouth or even just put back together the shattered mess of their...partnership.

"You just _what_?" Sherlock softly prompts. It's out of character, that sort of timidity, and it's enough to give him back his courage.

John looks at him with something like defiance, something like a dare. "I just want it to have not been a lie. I want you to have meant it all." He sighs, aware that he might be looking at the end. "So this is it. This is what it comes down to. This is the line in the sand. Now it's all up to you."

It would have been easier, he thinks, if Sherlock had just calmly said something about being married to his work, or even if he'd yelled it at him. No, he just _sits_ there, his face a mask of apathy. Completely still. Blank. Maybe he's trying to work it all out. Maybe he's disturbed or annoyed. Either way, his silence is too much to bear.

"Look, I see how it is." Despite all of his training, everything, John's mind is repeating one word: _retreat, retreat, retreat_. "I'm going to go for now. I'll come back so you can decide if you're going to throw me out." He backs away, cautiously at first, still waiting for a reaction. After a second, it's clear he's not getting one, then he all but _runs_ from the flat. Down the stairs, through the door, outside. John gasps in the cool air, wondering why he can't breathe suddenly. His hands aren't shaking at all, but that makes him more nervous than anything else. The whole thing is a mess. It's all gone terribly pear-shaped, and far too quickly. John's fight-or-flight response has always been more of a _fight_ response, but here he is, running away. Like some sort of dirty coward-

His phone buzzes.

John pulls it out of his pocket, wondering why it's _still_ buzzing, but then the display tells him: _Call from Sherlock_.

Sherlock never calls. He doesn't like anything that personal, doesn't like having to actually talk to someone to get what he wants. But he's calling. It's there, right there on his phone, right in front of him.

Against his better judgement, John answers, but he doesn't say anything, just holds the phone to his ear nervously.

"_Come back_." It's little more than a whisper.

The line goes dead.

John takes the stairs in pairs, leaping up them like he's possessed. There's the possibility that Sherlock just wants to tell him to move out, but that doesn't fit with the fact that he _called_, at least that's what he tells himself because he _must_. He has to. Still, he pauses when he gets his hand on the door knob. It's a little too much of an open-ended question for him to just barge in, so he goes quietly, pushes the door open a little slower than normal. Steps inside. His chest is either too small or his lungs have collapsed or maybe his blood is flowing backwards because there's something horribly wrong with how he's feeling.

And there he is.

Sherlock, calm as ever, still on the couch, curled up. He looks oddly small for someone with such ridiculously long limbs. Maybe that's the expression on his face, like he's lost something, or realized that he never had it. He's not meant to look this way. This isn't the sort of madness he's supposed to embody.

John can only look at him.

"What do I do?" Sherlock asks softly. "I never made room in my brain for figuring out how to have interpersonal relationships, not anything like this." It almost makes _too much_ sense that he wouldn't have done so, but it makes John wonder just how much experience he has, if he actually has any at all. "I know how to compliment someone to make them do something I want and I know how to convince someone that I'm not interested in them. I even know how to pretend that I don't know how to feel anything about another person. But I don't know what to do next."

"That makes two of us." John runs a hand through his hair nervously, pausing to think. "So, um, what, exactly, are you saying?" Sherlock looks away, at the floor. Like there's something incredibly interesting going on between the wooden boards.

"I didn't mean to tell the truth last night."

That hits him harder than any blow he's taken.

Sherlock lifts his head, a look of uncertainty out of place on his face. "Can we skip this conversation? It's...difficult. I don't know what to say." The look in Sherlock's eyes, a sort of pleading insanity, makes John want to comply. He's not ready to talk about it yet, either, in any case. There's too much he hasn't figured out for himself yet.

"Then what? What comes after?"

"I don't know," Sherlock says honestly. "I thought you might know. You've had more experience in this area."

John lets out a half-laugh. "No. No, I have _absolutely no experience_ in this. I know how to date a woman, I know how to ask her out for coffee or dinner. I don't know what to do _here_. I mean, we _live_ together and you're, well, a _man_. There's nothing to compare to."

"Is it really different because I'm not a woman?" Sherlock seems almost nervous, and underneath his words is the unspoken question: _Is that a bad thing?_ Both are good questions, and he doesn't really know the answer to either.

"I'm not sure. I've never...I've only been with women before. I can't say." He bites his lip nervously. "I should mind it more than I do, though. I don't exactly remember _complaining_ last night."

There's an awkward silence.

"I can't stand not knowing what's going to happen," Sherlock says softly, almost to himself.

"I don't know if this is really working." John shifts his weight. "The talking, I mean."

Sherlock stands and moves towards him, seeming to be analyzing something. "It was easier when I had a gun in my hand. We're men of action, not words. Can this evenwork if we're not about to die?"

"I don't know," John confesses. "I suppose it's a good thing danger seems to find us." He cracks a little smile, but Sherlock seems to be too deep in thought to be amused. He's somewhere else in his mind. It's a familiar expression, the one he usually gets just before he makes some sort of breakthrough. The gears are whirring, it's just a matter of time...

Sherlock looks at him dead-on with some sort of bizarre intensity. "This, right now, is your chance to change your mind and decide not to do this."

"I'm not going to take it," John says, a little confused, but firm.

"Good." Sherlock reaches for him, grabs him by his shirt and his neck. Before John can thank any sort of higher power, Sherlock is pressing their mouths together. John takes just a moment to breathe in the oddly comforting scent of parchment and London air and formaldehyde before easing his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. It's in the heady rush of _perfect_ and _never stop_ that he latches on first to his collar, then slides his fingers up to Sherlock's firm jaw, wanting to memorize his face by touch.

His thumbs tracing over prominent cheekbones, John can't help but sigh into the kiss. Without the adrenaline and need and rawness, it's still almost too much to comprehend. Except he _knows_. John knows that Sherlock, master of silent communication, is trying to breathe the words and feelings he can't say into his mouth. Words like _sorry _and _safe_ and _please_ and _love_, it's all perfectly clear to his mind, to his lips, to his soul. Maybe it's a bad thing that Sherlock seems to have a direct connection to the very core of him, but feeling his skin, tasting his thoughts, it's nothing short of brilliant. The fact that they're both just a mess of angles and problems and danger doesn't matter, not if all of their jagged edges are fitting together like this. Like they're parts of a split whole.

John's lost himself. Not in that sort of cheesy way, but in that he has absolutely no idea where the person he used to be is. In his place is someone who seems to have confused Sherlock (_Sherlock Holmes_,_ flatmate and resident genius_) with the oxygen he used to breathe. There's really nothing more in him now than this overwhelming feeling like _this is everything_, just everything in the entire world. Sherlock making him check his sanity at the door, Sherlock holding onto him, Sherlock trying to find himself somewhere in John's mouth. It's an accident, a mistake, and it's utterly beautiful.

Sherlock pulls away for almost a second, then falls into him again. He tries again, getting as far as the corner of John's mouth. The third time, he actually manages to get an inch between them and keeps it, pressing their foreheads together.

"I should have told you a thousand times that I-that I..._you know_." And John does know - he knows that there's really not a word big enough to fit all of the feeling in. "Don't ever leave me," he whispers, twisting against him with some emotion John can't quite name.

"I don't think I could, even if I wanted to."

Sherlock stills, calms in response.

John isn't sure why, but he continues, saying, "It isn't right, I don't think, to be like this. I don't think it's right to actually _need_ you." He frowns a little, not sure he's really saying quite what he means. "_This feels dangerous_." There's no other way to convey that he feels like whatever it is between them could make worlds perish and stars bleed and oceans freeze. They're some sort of spinning, barely-contained inferno now, and he isn't sure what it'll take to make them spiral out of control.

Sherlock presses his lips to John's cheekbone; it's not a kiss, more like he just wants to be sure he's there. "I wasn't lying when I said I'd ruin you. I'll have you forever or not at all, and it's already too late for the latter. I don't really want to hurt you, but I never learned how to love gently. I never learned at all." It comes to him that maybe Sherlock needs him more than John will ever need him in return. Sherlock is the sort of person to go forth with everything, his whole body and soul, but John's not whole to begin with. He can't compete. That means it's likely to end in bitter ashes and sorrow, but for some reason, he's fine with that.

"I can't shake the feeling that you'll be the one who's broken." Because John needs him too much and it's still not enough, but the end isn't now and they haven't fallen apart yet. There might be a time to hold themselves together and wonder at how something can hurt so much without leaving a mark, but now they have an eternity to relish it all and forge good memories that they might wound themselves with later. There's a tinge of predestination in the air, but it's impossible to tell what sort it is, doom or glory.

"You might be right." Sherlock's voice is too empty, like maybe he knows it, feels it all too.

So John kisses him softly on the mouth and simply says, "We're here. Now. That's enough."

And when they kiss again, it's like everything lost has been found, all of the empty, lonely places inside of them have been filled and like somewhere far, far beyond them, something big and miraculous and frighteningly _meant to be_ is falling into place. In that moment, they are terrifyingly alive. For just that one, single moment, John's completely certain they're destined for something enormous and entirely extraordinary.

* * *

"_Whatever they say,_  
_ Your soul's unbreakable._

_During the struggle, they will pull us down,_  
_But please, please, let's use this chance to turn things around,_  
_And tonight we can truly say:_  
_'Together we're invincible_.'"

"Invincible" by Muse


End file.
